I have never heard such a natural quiet.
The wind speaks gentle, but firm enough to keep the bugs away. Small ripples form on the pond before me and softly lap on the hollow metal frame of a float plane.
It’s serene. I am alone besides the occasional bee coming to check me out.
The Jack Whites rise to the east of where I’m sitting. It looks reachable, but the journey there is long and arduous. Muskeg and tussocks and ponds stand between me and them. Unfathomable amounts of mosquitoes likely live there as well.
To the north, the Brooks Range rises. They don’t seem so dramatic from where I’m sitting, but I would be remiss if I didn’t say how homely they look. As though the beckon me to walk their valleys and unwind their rivers. And I know I am not the first person that has felt this.
Though I know these mountains only see me as a tiny flicker, barely a blink in their long lifespan. The mountains see us merely as their guest, all are welcome.
Here I am alone, outside a small village. I am 30 miles north of the Arctic Circle. There are no roads here in the summer. Yet we have access to so much here on the edge of the last American frontier. In a place so isolated I don’t feel much isolation.
There is an endless amount of things to do in a seemingly endless amount of time. So much time to think, time to be present. But it keeps slipping away. Time can be so difficult to manage, maybe we shouldn’t manage it at all.
A single bumblebee is searching the late spring flowers near me. Busy at work, making the most of it’s time serving it’s purpose. I listen to it buzz by and then fly away.
Perhaps I should get up from this pond and head back for dinner. Perhaps I should enjoy this quiet while it still just is.